


that calm

by trill_gutterbug



Category: The Thin Red Line (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: “I just thought you might like to kiss me, is all,” Witt said.
Relationships: Edward Welsh/Robert Witt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	that calm

There was quiet for a long time after Welsh spoke. So long that, spooled out by the clear radiance of the glittering stars overhead and the distant rush of the waves on the beach, Welsh eventually forgot what he’d said. He cast his mind around for it, only half interested, and discovered it was more work than he cared for. He shut his tired eyes against the stars and leaned his head back on the wheel of the Jeep. His legs, stretched out in front of him, felt six miles away. Under his palm, the earth was damp. He dug a thumbnail into it.

Eventually, Witt moved. It wasn’t much, just the creak of his rifle and the rustle of his knees in the dirt. Welsh cracked an eye open, then the other. The sky behind Witt, the far-off glow of the HQ cookfire, was bright enough to see the shape of him. Faceless, but near. Witt came closer in a folding motion like he was sinking down into the ground for a nap - just that easy, that unconsidered, that sure. 

“What are you doing,” Welsh said, when Witt touched him. He said it unthinking, and was glad he had when his heart began to hammer an instant later, belated, and stopped the breath in his throat. 

It was just Witt’s knuckles, bumping his chin and then the edge of his jaw, catching stubble. They moved up Welsh’s cheek on an uncalculated trajectory. Witt’s hand was big, and it felt to Welsh like it covered the whole side of his face. He didn’t move. He couldn’t figure out how. His nerves were all seized up.

“S’okay,” said Witt. And, softly, “Nothin’.”

The block in Welsh’s throat receded. He could breathe suddenly, and too fast. His nails carved the dirt. Witt’s thumb, sliding beneath his eye, smelled of grease, of sulfur. 

“I just thought you might like to kiss me, is all,” Witt said.

Another silence, maybe as long as the first, but this time with no soporific lull to erase the words from Welsh’s mind. They rang and rang in his ears. There he sat, frozen like a fish, hearing them repeated until they lost all sense. Witt’s gentle, lazy voice making a mess of the whole world. 

Finally, he laughed. It didn’t come out sounding any good, but Witt laughed too. Gentle, lazy. His fingers curled beneath Welsh’s jaw. His thumb slipped down the bridge of Welsh’s nose and touched his mouth. Over and over, without haste. He knelt there in front of Welsh, quiet and unconcerned in the dark, touching his mouth. 

In a very strange way, it occurred to Welsh that he could say whatever he wanted. They were alone, they were safe, nothing mattered at this time of night. He could kill Witt out here with his bare hands and get away with it, probably. They were off the line, but not that far off. Shit happened. He thought about that, and a sharp something flinched in the back of his brain. 

The silence had been going on a long time. He should say something. He would, but Witt’s thumb on his mouth wouldn’t let him. If he opened his lips, it would touch the inside of them. It would touch his teeth. He lifted his hand out of the dirt and wrapped it around Witt’s wrist. Witt’s thumb stopped moving, right there against the centre of him. Welsh held his wrist, waiting for that vital second where it would make sense to pull it away. He waited. 

Finally, Witt moved his thumb. Welsh kept holding his wrist. The distant waves rushed and the wind rushed too. On his knees, clouded by darkness, Witt leaned forward. Welsh didn’t stop him. It didn’t make any sense to.


End file.
